


Vice Versus

by futureboy



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Bickering, Cinematographer Michael, First Kiss, Humor, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Oh There Is So Much Profanity...... This is an exercise in how much i love foul language, Personality Swap, Rage Brit Gavin, Swearing, Video & Computer Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:21:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28577430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureboy/pseuds/futureboy
Summary: “You’re the Rage Brit Guy! Hey, I loved the Impossible Game one.”“That’s good, ‘cos I bloody hated it,” Gavin says flippantly, and returns to his editing.Reverse!Mavin. Encounters over the years between Gavin ‘Rage Brit’ Free, and Michael Jones, a despondent food scientist who knows experiments are just gonna end in mess.
Relationships: Gavin Free/Michael Jones
Comments: 18
Kudos: 42





	1. 2012

**Author's Note:**

> [RPF disclaimer: Written according to guidelines set by RT employees (to the best of my knowledge). This is a fictional series of events using characters inspired by real people.]

**2012**

It’s 2012 and Michael loves every damn day of the job. He’s decked out his desk with a few pieces of memorabilia, which are mostly from his and Lindsay’s past few shoots, and he’s ready to take on whatever the dynamic of the new guy throws at him. Jack’s got his back, at least, so that eases his worrying a little smoosh.

“What the smeg is a _smoosh_?”

“Who the hell is this?” Michael says, ignoring the curl of the lip and the shitty tone. “I think someone went and slot a quarter into London Eye, here.”

Geoff doesn’t even bother to turn around. “That’s Gavin. He’s a fuck.”

So-called ‘Gavin’ makes a dismissive _pffft_ noise. “Eat a knob, Geoff.”

“...Are you asking me to suck you off?”

“Oh,” says Michael, before their conversation can spiral further into dick-eating. “You’re the Rage Brit Guy! Hey, I loved the Impossible Game one.”

“That’s good, ‘cos I bloody _hated_ it,” Gavin says flippantly, and returns to his editing.

Gavin’s desk is next to Michael’s, it turns out. The computer’s not as powerful as the one Michael uses outside of Rooster Teeth - it’s currently stacked in a haphazard, but functional heap in Jack’s garage - but for video games, it does the job _very_ nicely. Gavin curls his lip and agrees.

Gavin also does his job remarkably well.

Considering.

The day Lindsay walks into the office and lays eyes on him, Gavin’s opened his mouth for two seconds before they make the mistake of saying: “ _oh._ You’re British.”

“Is that a problem?” Gavin asks snidely.

“No, I just didn’t expect it, that’s all. You didn’t look like you’d be British.”

“What do you mean, I didn’t _look_ like it?!” he explodes, and Michael guffaws into his microphone, and when Gavin whirls around to challenge him on it there’s a terrible, smiley glint in his eye.

They click like mice. Lindsay isn’t a particularly bold intern at that point, but they’ll work their way up to annoying him as much as Michael does. It’s inevitable. Fate, maybe. Michael doesn’t believe in fate, but he does believe in recognizing the signs of impending disaster and doom.

* * *

“Let me put my torch down.”

“Torch? It’s not on fire.”

“Well, it’s not bloody _flashing_ , either, it’s not a flashlight!” Gavin protests. 

Oh, Michael’s going to enjoy pissing him off with this one.

Something about being in Gavin’s presence is easy. He’s not sure if Gavin feels it too, but it got to the third week of working with each other and they started conversing solely in shrill, sudden noises, so something must say ‘best friends’ about that kinda communication. That being said, Slender’s not the easiest game in the world in _single_ player mode, elt alone with two of them.

“See, _now_ ,” Michael tells him, “ _now_ it’s like if I were carrying you on my shoulders. Giving you a piggyback…”

“In the dark. In the _woods_ ,” says Gavin irritably. “Yeah, thanks for that, mate.”

Michael loves working with Gavin. Especially amidst the nonsense they cook up with random one-off videos. It’s just plain _exciting_ to see how far he can try his luck, until he crosses the line too far and provokes an explosion. To Michael, it feels like giving nuclear warheads to a rugrat in the sandpit - wildly disproportionate and so, _so_ ill-advised.

There’s a series of vigorous mouse-swishes. The first-person camera drops a startling amount of frames.

“Finding paper in the woods is so stupid. It’s all paper! It’s all, like, pre-paper! Look at all these bleeding _trees_ , Michael!” Gavin screeches.

“We’ve got this paper here,” he says, holding up the print-out guide, “I don’t know if it’s any use, but--”

Gavin snatches it with both hands. “What?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at the instructions. “Wh-- oh, what the hell is _this_. This is rubbish!”

“You’re crumpling it,” says Michael. “Give it back.”

“No, I’m reading it--”

“You’re not,” says Michael, heart in his throat as static fills the screen. “You’re _not_ , you’re killing us! We’re dying, Gavin!”

“Michael!!” Gavin bellows, and unplugs the mouse in the frenzy that follows.

(The two of them don’t win that game.)

The audience already subscribe for Gavin’s rampages, that much is certain - but they seem to particularly enjoy his furious, Michael-aimed tirades of complaints and cusswords. Everyone in the comments section seems to have fallen a little bit in love with the way that Michael gleefully works Gavin into a boiling mess of rage, and the way that Gavin lets it fly right back at him in some kind of anger-based Dragonball Z move.

The worst part is…

Well.

So has Michael.


	2. 2013

**2013**

“I think I’m gonna win.”

“Shut the fuck up, Geoff, you’re flying.”

“No, you’re right, I think _you’re_ gonna win, Jack,” Geoff says, instantly flipping his opinion, “you’ve got iron armor and a diamond pickaxe, you can just beat the shit out of everyone else before they hit level thirty. I’ll help.”

“Geoff! Don’t you come near me!” warns Gavin. “I’ve got a spade and I’m not afraid to use it. I’ll clonk you.”

Geoff promptly pisses himself laughing.

“How are you doing, Michael?” asks Jack, over the commotion.

Michael is perfectly content slaughtering this convenient vein of wild animals he’s come across, thank you very much, but he’d rather like to get them to fuck and make some more so that his level grinding lasts a little longer. He’s got a diamond hanging heavy over his heart, and the matching Creeper across the room is probably hanging lightly over Gavin’s.

“Mogar is discovering fire,” he says. “Mogar is discovering forging… Mogar is discovering love.”

“I think he means that he’s got a good sword and a cow husband,” Gavin offers.

“You’re getting pretty good at translating Jersey speak, Gav,” says Geoff, “next thing we know, you’ll be filming beefburger patties and making, uh, a Hell’s Kitchen ripoff with Gordon Ramsey--”

“Michael would go with Jamie Oliver if he went British,” says Gavin, curling his lip. “That prick. He took away my Turkey Twizzlers.”

“I’m sorry,” says Michael genuinely, “I don’t know how to _begin_ to translate that.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got a theory. Way more important than Twizzlers.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Gavin, “I’m gonna do an experiment. I’m _well_ down in this mineshaft--”

“That’s Mogar with his cow husband!”

Gavin snort-laughs. “No, I mean-- there’s Creepers below, and a _beltload_ of iron. I think maybe I can get them to do the heavy lifting for me, guys.”

“Yeah, let me know how that goes,” says Michael, summoning mutton with a swing of his sword, “I’ll be up here, making kebabs.”

“It’ll work, Michael. It’ll work.”

It doesn’t work. Michael knew this was going to happen - well, everyone did, being honest, but there’d been something far too confident about the venture that he’d just _known_ would set Gavin up for failure. 

And a catastrophic blowout, of course.

“Why didn’t the sodding thing WORK!” he yells, over the dulcet tones of everyone else losing their shit laughing at his death notification.

“Of course it didn’t work, Gavin, you have no control group to measure it against!” Michael points out. “When have you _ever_ seen that work for anyone else? Never! There’s no data to support it--!”

Gavin clears his throat in a manner Michael can only describe as _sarcastic_ . “Oh, pardon me, _Doctor Minecraft,_ I didn’t realise we had an expert in our midst!” he bites back.

(“Doctor Minecraft…” weeps Jack.) 

Michael twists his body so that he can both face Gavin and still speak into the mic. “Wow, you really are a little Creeper, aren’t you?” he says. “Sitting next to you _sucks_ , dude, I never know when you’re going to explode.” 

“Are you _trying_ to wind me up into a tizzy?” Gavin accuses.

“Yeah, I’m hoping you might mine some iron for me,” Michael says, and Geoff cackles so suddenly that he blows out his audio. 

It might be his imagination - or maybe a weird little hope - but as Michael turns back to his screen, he _swears_ Gavin catches his eye and smiles. 

When he glances back, the smile has been replaced with a scowl. 

“I’m gonna waterboard you with bevs tonight,” says Gavin, in a way that actually means _do you want to go for a drink after work?_

And Michael says, “yeah, yeah, ply me with shots like a floozy, I’m still gonna get to level thirty before you,” and secretly looks forward to their weekly plans very much. 


	3. 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mild sexual content ahead.

**2014**

No-one does ‘swimmy bevs’ like Gavin does.

Wait, no, scrap that. No-one does ‘swimmy bevs’ - _Gavin does._ Sure, Michael’s had a few beers in the pool before, but never as a main, organized event, and never from a personalized cooler.

“It’s not _personalised_. They’re just plain old fridge magnets.”

“Yeah,” says Michael, “but having them spell our names makes it feel like we’re drinking for a special occasion.”

“We are. A week without my boi!” Gavin laments. “What am I gonna do?”

Michael plucks out another beer and tosses it across the courtyard. Gavin can drink about it, is what Gavin can do. God knows it’s what Michael’s been doing.

Which is how they’ve gotten into this state.

Being drunk with Gavin is always fun. His rage is looser, and his smiles come easier. Being drunk with Gavin in a shallow, deserted communal pool is even better, because it’s like they’re being idiots in the open sunshine for all to see, and nobody’s even bothering to look. And as ever, the bottom line is that Michael really fucking enjoys making Gavin mad. It’s probably something to do with control - the way that it’s somehow so easy for Michael to set him off, and yet _always_ with zero animosity whatsoever. It’s as though Gavin is _more_ than happy to be pissed off by Michael personally. 

On the flip side, though… Gavin’s weird little giggle is supremely satisfying to coax out of him. And it’s easier to do when they’re full of Michael’s shitty beer.

Last bevs, though. They’re gonna have to go back up to Michael’s apartment for more, soon.

The world is shifting in strange squares when they trek up the stairs to his place, ready to raid the refrigerator - it’s only when they’re shouldering their way into the hallway that Michael looks up from his leaden, drunken feet. Gavin’s put his shirt back on. It’s a damn shame.

“Have you always had that mark on your face, dude?”

“What?” says Gavin. “No! This is from that bloody archery bollocks in the office the other day.”

“Oh, jeez,” says Michael. Gavin’s got a big red streak across his cheek, like a burn, or a scratch, or something equally as irritating, and that can only have been preceded by a cry of _‘Mark Nutt!’_.

“Yeah,” says Gav, and rubs at it. “Jack’s a _good_ shot.”

Michael briefly entertains the idea of holding an ice cube to it when he rummages for their new drinks, but the idea leaves his brain almost as soon as it arrives. Instead, he rolls a fresh can over the breakfast bar - “I _swear_ you want to fizz them up as much as possible before they get to me, you are _such_ a git,” - and flicks through his photo library for the inspiration pics for his new shoot.

Gavin peers over his shoulder. “Are those your initial ideas? You make food look so _bold_.”

“Oh, thanks! I took most of them yesterday,” says Michael. “Don’t mind that scorch mark on the counter. I’m doing, like, Fourth of July bumpers for the network. Sparklers and shit. And Lindsay's on cookout duty. It’s gonna be awesome.”

“Yeah, yeah. Call me when you get a Christmas gig,” Gavin smirks, and starts stacking the bottles he’d brought in the refrigerator. It’s nice beer, too - weirdly considerate, to be honest. It kinda feels like he’s a big softie at heart.

Michael leans against the breakfast bar. “What, you don’t want me calling you already?” he asks. “I gotta work for it? I’m hurt, Gavvy.”

A beer bottle makes its way into the vegetable drawer for safekeeping. Gavin shrugs without turning back to look at him:

“I never said _that_ ,” he remarks. He says it quietly - and _casually_ , too fucking casually.

Michael’s not sure if it’s a joke or not.

“Dude,” he says, testing the waters, “if I’d have known I could’ve hit you up all this time, I would’ve been booty calling you _ages_ ago! We’ve been…”

Gavin closes the refrigerator, and when he throws a glance over his shoulder, he doesn’t break eye contact.

_He’s really not sure if this is a joke or not._

“...We’ve been wasting time,” Michael finishes weakly, with every second of the sudden, unbearable tension beating a _significant_ dent into his self-confidence.

Gavin shifts his weight onto his other leg, and presses his back against the refrigerator door.

“Go on then,” he says, and tilts his chin up in challenge. “Give me a ring.”

Michael has a brief moment where his stupid, booze-thick brain can’t decide whether to commit to the danger or not. His wet curls feel sticky and clammy against the back of his neck. What might be a double-take towards Gavin occurs - or it’s possibly a fake-out of some sort - before Michael finally manages to step into Gavin’s personal space for realsies. The loudest thing in the room is the hum of the refrigerator.

“Give you a _ring?”_ he asks.

“Yeah,” says Gavin, staring him down, “like, give me a ring, give me a buzz. Call the landline. Y’know.”

Michael lets his hands hover over the sides of Gavin’s mostly-dry shirt, where the hem meets his stupid pool-soaked board shorts, and stares at Gavin’s completely soaked shoes from where he’d thrown them at Michael to try and get him to fall off the inflatable floatie.

“I don’t know your number,” he says.

He can still feel Gavin’s heavy stare resting on him. “Me neither,” says Gavin, because he’s funny and he’s an _idiot_ , and over the top of Michael’s laughter he says, “no, really, I’ve got no idea. Just got a new phone, didn’t I? I can tell you my one from home, though, it’s Thame-six-six-seven--”

“Gav, dude, I’ll just tell you in person,” Michael smiles, and slips his hands under Gavin’s shirt. 

It’s the middle of June, and yet the situation snowballs dramatically, starting from when he tastes flat and oddly sweetened lager on Gavin’s tongue, to when Gavin pleasantly unsticks Michael’s wet hair from the back of his neck with dozy fingers. Michael finds out that Gav flinches ticklishly when his hips are touched, apparently, which is really enjoyable to discover. The scruff on his face is scratchy as hell. His chest hair is as wiry as it looks, but when Michael finally gets those dumbass shorts a little lower, he finds the hair down there is pretty fucking soft, actually.

The floor is so cold against his shins that it burns.

And it turns out that his refrigerator is just as sturdy as it looks, because after he’s wiped his chin with the heel of his hand, Gavin hauls him to his feet and lets him collapse against his neck, while deft hands get to work and summer day-drinking headaches start to set in.

Michael thinks about that weird haze of dizzy horniness the whole time he’s on set, wielding sparklers and tinfoil and more freckles from that day in the sun than he knows what to do with.

And after he gets back, everything’s just as it was. Gavin doesn’t mention a thing. No-one in the office cracks jokes about handys, and no-one on the internet gossips about how Michael got bevved and sucked off the Rage Brit Guy.

Which is a mixed bag.

But it might be a good thing after all.


	4. 2015

**2015**

Michael films a lot of bumpers these days. For a lot of channels, too. From intros to Youtube cookery channels to ads for shows on network television, he casts cocktails and confectionary and concession stand snacks into abstract double exposures, Dutch angles, slow motion - he even releases more of his own videos, like Popcorn Through a Fisheye Lens (hilarious), and Rice Krispies in Sprite (oddly captivating). It’s a busy old year.

And Achievement Hunter is still the best way to wind down from it all, because he gets to see his friends and talk complete fucking _crap_ with them, every single working day.

Sometimes it’s not crap - sometimes it’s important. He shows Lindsay the high school candids of him with a wholeass diamond earring, because they show him the aftermath of a particularly bad softball pitch (two broken noses, neither of them Lindsay’s). When Trevor tells him a _truly_ awful high school anecdote, Michael reveals that his first kiss was with Samuel Straub, the bass player of a punk band he was in during sophomore year. And when Steffie lets slip something about her shitty landlord, Michael gives her mortgage tips, and accidentally lets her know that he’s buying his own place. A gradual drop of the guard is important to the cast; they’re friends, with strong privacy settings, and even stronger moments of trust.

It’s nearly airtight.

It’s _almost_ picture perfect.

Except it feels like there’s a huge, transparent piece missing. Sorta like the protective layer in a photo album.

So last summer, Michael sucked Gavin’s chlorinated dick, and the two of them kind of never spoke about it ever again. Shit happens. That much is apparent. It was fun in the moment, but honestly, it’s actually easy as hell to keep going like usual - Gavin’s still grabby and disproportionately insulting, and Michael still gets pissy when a big mess goes uncleaned in the office, and they don’t talk about how they’ve seen each other’s O-faces. It’s all gucci.

But it’s not. Michael has a date with a girl from his favorite bakery and keeps it to himself, because he knows he’ll get the shit ripped out of him and he’s not sure they’re right for each other yet. And then they’re not, so crisis averted.

Then Michael has a date with a guy and makes a point of saying it loudly enough off-camera that no-one will rip into him for it at _all_ , and then that _also_ falls through, and other people in the office console him for it when he’s not really that bothered. Because in the back of his head, there’s an angry little seat reserved for the resident son-of-a-Brit who he has matching Achievement Hunter slapbands with.

“I _can’t_ ,” says Gavin, trying to keep his voice level, “do this DAMN CORNER--”

They’re zipping down towards Vespucci Beach. Michael’s in third, Jack’s in fourth, and Jeremy’s in second. (Lindsay is, unsurprisingly, in last place.) Gavin’s been battling this whole race to keep the _numero uno_ spot, and luckily he’s so far ahead that his battle with the sharp corners at the end of the lap have so far been largely uninfluential on the race.

“Hey, Gav… Nice car you got there.”

“Shut up,” says Gavin.

Jeremy has made some gains, from the sound of it, which is dangerous - they’re on the final lap.

“Jeremy,” Gavin warns.

“Yeah?”

“If you hip check me,” he says, “I’m gonna run over your sad little Rimmy body. _Then_ we’ll see who’s victorious.”

“You’ll have to catch me first,” says Jeremy, and proceeds to start drifting.

“Jeremy-- _Jeremy_. JEREMY!!”

**JDoolz finished in 1st place.**

_“I can’t believe you,”_ Gavin seethes, while everyone else around him suffocates on their own hysterics. “I was doing so well! You bunced me into the bloody corner, you _stupid ninny!”_

Jack is audibly crying. “He killed him _right_ at the finish line,” he explains, “right on that last corner before the home stretch, he was so lucky and then Jeremy undid it all--”

“Why are you _exposing me,_ ” Gavin demands, “as a flukey little fuck-up, Jack?!”

 **AHMichael finished in 2nd place.** **  
****GavinoFree finished in 3rd place.** **  
****JackP finished in 4th place.**

“I _hate_ you! I don’t know what I did to deserve this - what did I ever do to _you_ , Jeremy?! You race-throwing, life-ruining _arsehole--_ ”

“Fucking _Christ_ , Gavin!” Jeremy weeps, over the sound of Gavin bashing the edge of his controller into the desk. “Do you have to gargle with milk and honey every night? How is your throat not in _tatters_ every day of your life?!” 

“Because, Jeremy, I get all my gargling tips from your _mum!”_

You don’t exactly have to be Nostradamus to predict that this quickly devolves into several personal attacks and some vicious bickering. Michael takes his second place with minimal fuss and decides to drive around the boardwalk, cruising by the beaches and adding too-gentle commentary wherever he goes.

“Oooh, a gym,” he says to himself.

“If you hadn’t _sabotaged_ me in the final two seconds, I would have had it in the bag, you cheeky knob!”

“It’s not my fault you suck dick at turning corners, Gav--”

“Hellooooo,” Michael murmurs, and focuses his camera angle on a man who is both an NPC and a tasty piece of eye-candy. “What’s your name, handsome?”

 **DGgeoff finished in 5th place.** **  
****LLTUGGJ finished in 6th place.**

“Jeremy,” says Gavin.

“Yeah?”

“You’re the bane of my sodding existence. You’re life poison, Jeremy.”

They all end the video on a Jeremy victory, with Lindsay laughing their ass off that they didn’t somehow earn an DNF result, and Geoff and Jack bitching about that one real thin part of the racetrack. (To be fair, it had been bullshit to expect a car to be able to stay on it for like, a hundred miles of highway.)

They log off. Gavin still doesn’t seem pleased with the outcome; usually, he gets over himself quite quickly, but this time, he seems to be… dwelling.

“Oh, CACK!”

“You fighting with your calendar again, Gavin?” asks Geoff.

“Yeah,” says Gavin, “a bit! Why does it give you the option to snooze for five _days_ instead of five minutes automatically? This is bullshit--”

“S’okay, Gav, I’m sure you can make it to your meeting,” says Jack.

It’s too dismissive - Michael can tell from the start, but he’s not certain that everyone has picked up on it. 

“Cacky _bollocks!”_ Gavin says again. 

It earns him an odd look from Jeremy. “What’s got you so wound tight?” he asks curiously, which is a fair question, because a loss in a GTA V race doesn’t usually affect him this badly.

Today might be an exception. Who knows. “You know what, Jeremy,” he starts - “I’ve had a day entirely comprised of asshattery. There’s been bullshit abound; there’s been fertiliser lining my every move, actually, and I’m _sick_ of it. All in all, I could do without the aggro, to be honest.”

This kind of thing is out of the ordinary, and attracts Michael’s attention.

“What do you mean, bullshit abound?” he queries. “GTA’s a pain in the ass, but it’s not exactly emotionally taxing--”

“You!” exclaims Gavin. “You-- handsome?! Don’t you think that was a bit overkill?”

Michael scowls. “What, the fuckin’ gym bunny at the beach just now?!” he asks. “Relax, man, he was basically Blaine! Are you seriously--”

“I’ve been _running!”_ Gavin protests.

There’s a pause.

Jeremy catches his eye.

“…What the fuck does _that_ mean?” asks Michael. 

He’s genuinely confused, but it looks like Gavin doesn’t want to elaborate. “Down the damn street,” he says, “across the _block_.”

“…Annnnd?” says Michael.

Gavin opens his mouth, closes it again, puts his hands on his hips, and makes a noise like a horse.

“You know what?” he says. “Nothing. I’m going for lunch with Barb, I’ll see you guys at one.”

Michael and Jeremy watch him leave the office.

The fire door swings shut with a rattling _clang_.

Jeremy leans forward in his chair, letting the creak of the reclining back fill the sudden void of sound. “Was Gav… _jealous_?” he asks.

“I have _no_ idea,” says Michael, utterly bewildered, “what the hell just _happened?”_

“I dunno. It kinda sounded like you pissed him off…”

“I didn’t piss him off, what the fuck, Jeremy! It was _you_ who bunced him out of a victory--”

Gavin returns after lunch to find several things different to how he left them: the office is significantly cleaner, all that broken glass in the corner has been vacuumed up, and his desktop collection of moldering disposable coffee cups have been, presumably, destroyed in a controlled environment. (Or maybe just… put in the trash. Who’s to say.)

“What’s this?”

“Michael stress-cleaned,” says Jack, without looking up from his monitor.

“Jack!” Michael says, appalled, “you tattled! I did _not_ \--”

Gavin narrows his eyes at his desktop. “Who put a Twirl here?”

“That was Jeremy, he wanted to apologize,” Michael says quickly, and ignores the hole that Jack’s stare bores into the side of his skull.

Because the fact of the matter is - if Michael was gonna try to cheer Gavin’s miserable little tush up with British chocolate, then he had to retrieve it from their stash of AHWU mail. And to get there, he would have to clear a path, a _safe_ path, to try to find the one little parcel of candy he knew Gavin would like best from what they had. And _then_ , if he were to place it on Gavin’s desk, he might as well decontaminate Gavin’s work space while he was at it. The cleaning would clearly be the side effects of a larger operation, in that scenario. Maybe _too_ large a gesture than would be necessary.

Good thing it had all been Jeremy’s handiwork, then.

Gavin redirects his suspicion towards Michael, and Michael does his best not to notice, and neither of them mention it. (Which is just another event in an ever-lengthening string of them, to be honest.)


	5. 2016

**2016**

“Tinder?”

“No, ta.”

“Match.com?”

_“No.”_

“Craigslist?” Geoff suggests.

“Absolutely _not_ ,” scoffs Gavin.

“Yeah, Geoff,” Jeremy adds, “why are you trying to get Gavin murdered?”

“To be fair, I’m never _not_ trying to get Gavin murdered.”

Michael peers over his glasses: “Gavin doesn’t need the help,” he reminds them. “With the date, I mean, not the murder. Remember last week when we picked up coffee and that girl wrote her number on _two_ of the cups? ”

“That might still have been to do with murder. You never know,” Lindsay says thoughtfully.

“Look, would you just give it a rest? I’m not joining a dating site or a shagging app,” says Gavin. “That’s the end of it. Alright? Let’s put a stop to it before it bleeds over into a video or something.”

And every single person in the room cringes when Geoff soldiers on. “C’mon, man!” he grins. “Just try it! When was the last time you had a girlfriend longer than a few months?”

Gavin frowns. “School, I think. I’m just not really interested.”

“Huh. Maybe you should try something different. Than women.” 

“Hilarious. You’re a regular sodding comedian. Been there, done that, you’re not giving me any new suggestions--” 

Geoff sits up.

“Wait, are you for real?” he asks him, entirely serious now. “Gavin - have you dated a dude before?”

(Michael freezes. So does everyone else, but… Presumably it’s not for the same reason as Michael. His blood abruptly feels very cold.)

“Well, not dated,” Gavin says, _mmm_ ing and _ahhh_ ing, “but, like, _stuff_ , yeah.”

“You’ve done _stuff_ with a dude?” Trevor asks. “I think that’s different.”

“No it’s not. You’ve seen me snog men on camera, why wouldn’t I outside of videos?” he asks. “What, you’re telling me you’ve never had a weirdly charged moment with a bloke before? That’s bullshit. Hasn’t everyone?”

And Lindsay says ‘yeahʼ, and Geoff says ‘yeah’ wistfully, and Trevor looks taken aback, particularly when he looks to Jeremy for guidance and Jeremy just _shrugs_ , and then something about Trevor’s face screams ‘y’all do y’all, but I’m not asking about it anymore’ when he delves back into the AHWU mail. 

“I’ve done stuff,” Michael says. 

Lindsay smiles at him kindly:

“We know, Michael.”

“You didn’t ask me, though--” 

“It’s because we respect you too much,” Geoff brazenly lies. 

“And there’s no mystery,” says Trevor, tossing a letter like a throwing star at Jeremy’s head. “We know your dick’s been in dudes.”

“Well, we don’t know that for sure. Maybe dudes’ dicks have been in him,” Lindsay points out. 

“Wow, you were right,” says Michael, “you _do_ respect me too much! It’d be _great_ if we could stop talking about dicks in me now.”

“Where did you think that conversation was gonna go?” Jeremy cackles, and Michael quips back something about _dinner and a movie first, bitch,_ before their buffering time is up and everybody’s cast into the midst of 7 Days to Die.

And he doesn’t think anything more of it until the end of the day.

“Any plans tonight, Mister Jones?” Lindsay asks him, punctuating it with the _zzzziiip!_ of their jacket.

“Yeah,” Gavin pipes up. “We’re going to the pictures. Aren’t we, Michaelboi?”

“I’m sorry?” says Michael. It’s the first _he’s_ hearing about it.

“You heard me,” says Gavin flippantly. “Nice day for it, ennit? You and me, Michael, let’s watch a film.”

“I… Yeah, okay,” says Michael, sharing a shrug with Lindsay as they leave. “Goodnight-- I mean, did you even look at what’s showing, Gav? I don’t know what’s on at the moment.”

Gavin holds up his phone screen.

“Oooh, new Purge movie? I’ll see that, fuck yeah.”

“Well… We’ve got to, haven’t we?” Gavin asks, the beginning of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Michael actually hadn’t had any plans until now, so he’s pretty fucking excited to go see what might be a terrible horror flick with Gavin. He shuts down his workspace as quickly as he can.

“Hey, Michael,” says Jeremy, looking up from his export, “me and Trevor are gonna play Siege tonight if you wanna join? It’s not a stream, it’s just a casual thing--”

Michael jabs a thumb at the casual thing that’s gonna preoccupy his evening. “Sorry,” he says. (Gavin kicks the wheels of his seat.) “Me and Gav are going to the movies tonight.” 

“Ooh, whatcha gonna see?” 

“New Purge film,” Gavin tells him. 

“Ha!” crows Jeremy, “good luck with _that_ one!” 

“What the hell does that mean?” Gavin asks. “Have you seen it? Is it scary? Jeremy!”

As it turns out, it’s not too bad - mostly tense and bloody, with some freaky-ass costumes thrown in. It’s more political than anything else, Michael finds, with all the subtlety of a Looney Tunes anvil.

Gavin doesn’t agree.

When a sinister figure leans into frame dressed like the Statue of Liberty just met Suicide Squad, Gavin sits up ramrod straight, in much the way a suddenly-inflated car dealership mascot would do so. (This is about the time that Michael remembers that Gavin _gets mad when he gets scared._ )

“Michael,” he says sharply.

“What?” Michael whispers.

“That neon bitch is giving me the _creeps_ , Mi--”

The soundtrack booms, with throaty bass and screeching strings, and Gavin jumps so hard that popcorn tumbles all over his lap. Shrieks fill the theater; Gav contributes pretty generously.

“MICHAEL!”

“Dude, you’re _clawing_ me,” Michael laughs, trying to both keep his voice down, keep his giggling to a minimum, and pry Gavin’s vice-like fingers away from his shoulder. “You good? Do you want me to hold your fuckin’ hand?”

“No, I don’t want you to _hold my hand_ ,” Gavin bites back, looking furious with himself, “it’s a _reflex_ , it’s not something I can help, really, is it? It’s-- JESUS CHRIST!”

And so it goes. The bruises are worth it. Michael laughs himself into an actual stitch at Gavin’s fear, wondering why the hell he chose a horror film to go and see, and rubs at his aching ribs even when it’s over and they’re all trailing out into the lobby.

“I liked it,” he remarks.

Gavin curls his lip.

“How can you _like_ a horror film?”

“Easy. I liked that it made you piss your pants,” Michael snorts. He definitely deserves the shove that he receives for that one. “Seriously, we usually stay in and watch stuff, an actual screening was _way_ better for this. It’s a nice change from home theater.”

“You think?”

“I mean, I _like_ the home theater, don’t get me wrong,” he adds, “but the movies are fun too.”

“You just like the popcorn,” Gavin grumbles.

Well, it’s not a drawback. Especially when Gavin had paid for it for both of them. 

“Next one’s on me,” Michael grins, “and I promise I _won’t_ pick something that’ll make you grope my guns for two hours.”

(Which hadn’t been a drawback either, if he’s being truthful.)


	6. 2017

**2017**

Gavin doesn’t think about the consequences of his actions. It’s not, strictly speaking, a negative trait, or some kind of flaw - it’s just a consistent fact about his personality. Ideas are thought up, suggested, and executed. In that order. Realization sets in about the same time as the axe of judgement falls on a situation.

Or a high shelf on Gavin's head. In this instance, anyway.

That’s about the half of it - Gavin doesn’t think about consequences, he just _destroys_. It’ll probably be a Between the Games video, when enough time has gone by that they can all laugh about it. 

Michael’s not laughing now.

They’ve been waiting for an hour to get Gavin’s concussion checked out - and it’s definitely a concussion, no matter _what_ the skeptics in the building might have had suspicions about. Gavin gags all the time, sure, but it's _mighty_ suspish when he does so after being assaulted by an IKEA demon. It's a short drive over. Bettr safe than sorry.

So here they are - perched in one of the only benches available. Michael had picked it, because he'd wanted to sit next to Gavin properly. Not in any of those stupid single seats - Gavin can slump against _him_ , that way, instead of clutch at the arms of a too-rigid chair that divided their sitting space in half. 

“Roomʼs spinninʼ,” he mumbles. 

“I know, Gav, but they'll see us soon,” Michael tells him. 

Gavin doesn't answer immediately - he takes a second to pull himself upright, frown deeply, and put his fingers gingerly to the back of his head. 

Michael guides them away. “Don't touch it, dude.”

“I still can't understand anyone,” Gavin says suddenly, starting furiously into the middle distance. A muscle in his jaw jumps. “Like, I know it’s English, but my brain can’t tell what the words are. I dunno. It’s weird.”

Michael’s been there before, sure. Half-asleep, usually, limp in the space where language couldn’t get through anymore. He figures a concussion would probably have the same effect without being, like, _too_ worrying. Gavin can walk and his pupils aren’t blown out, so the shelves probably just rattled his brain some.

“Not really sure why you’re still here,” Gavin says nonsensically. “Not like I’m gonna, like… Comprehend anything.”

Michael privately thinks that that’s standard. (He doesn’t say so, though. He doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t want to aggravate Gav any further.) With a withering raise of his eyebrows, he peers over his glasses, and meets Gavin’s stare - it’s _weird_ , to see that he’s not quite there behind the eyes. Like he’s wrapped his soul in saran wrap.

“Unless you can say something to me in a way I can understand,” Gavin continues, slurring slightly, “then this is _pointless_ , Michael. You might as well leave me to it.”

Michael pulls one of Gavin’s hands into his lap, warming the cold skin with both of his and completely enveloping him.

“…Oh,” says Gavin, after frowning at his own fingers for far too long.

Michael doesn’t follow it up with anything out loud. It doesn’t really need anything adding to it. They’re going to get called in, and the doctor’s gonna tell Gavin that nothing’s too shitty in his head, but that if he has someone at home, then he needs to be monitored while he’s sleeping for the next few days, and let’s face it - the poor bastard who’s gonna end up with _that_ task is Michael.

He squeezes Gavin’s hand.

Gavin doesn’t mention it, but he doesn’t let go, either.


	7. 2018

**2018**

Michael and Lindsay have, up until recently, been in charge of food fight cinematography for a high school movie. A fuckload of planning goes into stuff like that, apparently. The scene had been shot over three days, so not only had Michael needed to figure out how to shoot footage according to the director’s instructions, but Lindsay had needed to make sure the food still looked good on day three. Y’know? That’s a pain in the ass - especially during the temperatures of a Californian fall.

So when he gets home, he’s all too glad to be back at Achievement Hunter.

“SUPER BUNNY PLAY PALS YEAH--”

“Bleh-huhh-huugh-huhuhuh-HURRH--”

“Gonna get some carrot shit and STICK IT IN MY BUNNY DICK--”

You know - serious business. Real, honest work. Super Bunny Man is gonna win a Golden Joystick Award any day now, Michael just knows it.

“I just absolutely _skewered_ myself,” Gavin grizzles.

“Stop eating spike, then,” Michael suggests, “you gotta put an end to these shish-kabob aspirations, man.”

“I’m not dreaming of kebabs,” says Gavin, and immediately needles his bunny body in the exact same spot. “GAH!”

Michael feels the corners of his eyes crinkle up. Here’s the thing he knows about Gavin - whether he’s wheezing with laughter, or muffling some angry screeching, he’ll still do the same strange and completely unique ritual, every single time. It’s a routine where he stamps over to the corner of the room, takes a second to press his face into the soundproofing wall of foam, and marches back to the desk.

It’s such a bizarre, cute quirk. It makes Michael happy.

“Come and get me, boi.”

“From halfway down a cave wall? Go fuck yourself!” Michael laughs, “there’s no _way_ I can reach you!”

“We’re never gonna beat this level,” says Gavin, who resets it back to the start, and then instantly dies in the first spike pit again, and who also gets so mad that he burps a little as a reflex. “YOU PILLOCKING _IDIOT--_!”

“What is wrong with you?”

Gavin scrunches up his face, and presses his controller against his chin. “I never used to die on that bit!” he bitches, “I don’t know why I’ve forgotten how to play!”

It’s nice that it’s not a water level again, because those are those ones Michael usually dies most on. No, instead, it’s spike pits - Gavin prickles his character to death, again, and _urps_ into the microphone.

“I’m serious,” Michael says, as Gavin struggles to breathe. “Do you need an antacid or something?”

“Don’t let Lindsay feed me Tums,” he wheezes. “You know it makes me worse.”

“I know it makes you worse, yeah,” says Michael sagely, “but suit yourself, Gavin, if you throw up from Bunny Man Heartburn, then that’s on _you_.”

He goes back to the level - completely missing, at the time, the look which Gavin blinks towards his general direction. It’ll pick up on the webcam, sure, but that’s not the point.

The point is that he misses it in the moment.

And that’s why what happens afterwards comes as such a shock.

They play Super Bunny Man for almost ninety minutes. Forty of those are dedicated to a single level, and when they finally pass it, Michael is ready to pass _out_. Gavin, on the other hand, looks fully prepared to pass _away_ , as though he’s been shouldering his leporine failure within their own real, spikeless world.

“Ffffffrarghhhh,” he says intelligently, letting all the air in his body deflate out of him.

“What’s up with you?”

“Nuffin’.”

“Is it your stomach again?” Michael asks suspiciously. “I swear to god, if you--”

“I said ‘nothing’,” says Gavin, suddenly irritated.

“Woah, what?” he says, because this is coming out of left fucking field. “Jesus, Gav, I didn’t realize your indigestion was sensitive material, my bad.”

“It’s _not_ ,” Gavin spits.

This is so confusing. Michael braces himself in his chair - less offended and more _astonished_. “Then what the fuck is your problem?!” he asks, genuinely goddamn curious as to what all of this is about.

And Gavin doesn’t waste any more time. “You,” he says, snagging his voice on his own voices, “you-- _look after me_!”

“…What?” says Michael.

“All this domestic crap!” Gavin says, failing to enlighten him at all. _“Oooh, Gavin, do you need a Tums?_ You don’t need to dote on me like a--”

“Dote on you?!” says Michael. He’s absolutely fucking incredulous. “Have you gone fucking nuts? We’re best friends! You were practically rage-ralphing into the pop filter, of course I’m gonna check you’re not eroding your own goddamned esophagus--”

Gavin’s gotten to his feet. With a furious pace that he can’t quite make use of in a room so small, he presses his feet into the carpet, and throws his arms out, as though he’s casting a spell from the energy pent up in his shoulders. “Best mates don’t bloody hold hands with each other, Michael!” he says. “They don’t do stuff like we do--”

Michael has never felt so lost.

“What are you talking about?! Of course they do!”

“Then it’s me, I guess!” Gavin yells, throwing hands up, _“I’m_ the problem! I’m the spanner in the sodding works that’s buggering this whole thing up. Lucky _bloody_ me!”

“Gavin--”

But Gavin’s in the thick of it now, hitting his stride, letting sentences burst out of him like a ruptured water main. He probably couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

“I don’t know why I was psyching myself up,” he says, “why was I bothering? Why would you even _want_ a pissy gobshite man hovering around all the time? _Your boyfriend’s Gavin Free? Ooh, what’s that like?_ Well, mostly it’s stuff spoilt all over the shop because he can’t keep his _stupid_ mouth shut. Including _this_ , apparently! Which is fair, because what would you do with me? Y’know, I wish,” Gavin spits, “I wish you _were_ as unimportant to me as you think you are. But you’re not, Michael. You’re _not_.”

Michael is extremely thankful that he’s sitting down.

His stomach’s dropped clean through the floor. If his heart rate’s anything to go by, too, then it must be matching the rise and fall of Gavin’s ribs, worn out from his own ranting pessimism.

Gavin is both staring at the monitors behind Michael, and slowly extending his fingers behind him to presumably fumble the door open.

And Michael can’t let him do that. What the _fuck._

He reaches out before he's even fully out of his seat, a simple brush of knuckles against the outside of Gavin’s wrist - and whoever put that hurt, hurt expression of confusion on Gavin’s face can go to hell, even if it was Michael, because it shouldn’t be there and needs to be erased as soon as possible.

Michael reaches a shaky hand out to Gav’s face.

Gavin flinches. Then he accepts.

He’s like a deer in the headlights - except pissed off beyond belief that a motorist would _dare_ hit him. Michael wants to wipe that awful look off Gavin’s face, but he doesn’t know how. It’s all going too fast. 

“You stop that,” Michael says eventually. He’s not frowning - he’s just firm, and kind, in the way people nip an angry lack of confidence in the bud. “Stop that nonsense about stupid mouths and spoiling stuff, Gav.”

“Why should I?” Gavin demands.

The tone doesn’t hold weight like it usually does. Not this close to one another. Michael takes a deep breath.

“Well,” he shrugs - trying to be more casual that he really feels - “are you sure about ‘unimportant’? I don’t know about _that_.”

Gavin stares him down. 

Michael leans into his space. “I think I’m a pretty big deal,” he shrugs, because it’s now or never, to fix something he didn’t know had been deteriorating, and he uses the hand on Gavin’s face to draw the two of them into a kiss.

Gavin immediately makes a heartwrenchingly _sad_ noise against Michael’s mouth, sort of like a whimper, and bunches up the material at Michael’s waist between his hands. This much is clear - he’s been wanting this. He thought he couldn’t have it. And now he does.

Michael’s bowled over by the sheer force of that.

After a few dizzying seconds of feeling Gavin’s jaw working under his hand, feeling the tip of his cold nose drag over skin and his toes tipping nervously against Michael’s sneakers, he draws back.

“So,” he says.

“So?” Michael echoes.

“So… Are we gonna do this again in 2022?” Gavin asks, and _oh my god,_ Michael would kill him if he were twenty percent less patient. “‘Cos I’d like a heads up if that’s the case. I’ll wait. I can start a countdown.”

It’s an absolute mystery how Michael seems to be both the seal to stifle an oil fire, and the heat to make it flare up again. From frustration to kidding around in half a second. _Honestly_. “You’re not _waiting_ ,” he says clearly, “we’re not doing that. Are you serious right now?” 

“A bit, yeah.”

“Jesus Christ… Gavin,” says Michael, as plainly as he can, “I like you. I like having you around.”

“Oh,” says Gavin. “You do?”

This is going to be the death of him. “Yes!” he stresses. Gavin rests his sharp eye on Michael’s face (and rests his right hand, radiating heat, over Michael’s ass). “I like teaming up with you in stuff, I like our home theater nights, I like rescuing you from pincushion deaths in Bunny Man. I like you - so don’t be a fucking idiot about it, okay?”

“Okay,” says Gavin, and then again, under his breath, he says, “okay.”

Michael lets the two of them stand together for a moment; Gavin rests their temples together on one side, and his hair tickles Michael’s forehead. It’s oddly quiet for them. He doesn’t know what to make of this obvious development.

Apparently, neither does Gavin.

“I didn’t think you were that keen on me, to be honest,” he admits. “I wouldn’t have blamed you. I’m a bit much.”

Michael frowns, and leans back to look him in the eye.

“You’re exactly enough,” he says.

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Gavin cracks, and Michael doesn’t find it funny, because there’s never gonna be a moment where Gavin’s _too much_ for him. Michael’s a big boy. He can fucking handle a few man-tantrums now and again.

He glances at their footage, the file still processing on the monitor, and suddenly remembers how late it is.

They’ve got a work day to finish. Homes to get back to. The future is uncertain.

“What do we do now?” he asks, half about the present and half about Everything Else. It comes out a little more lost than he’d expected, which is kind of embarrassing.

Gavin stretches out his smile, in a wide, wide grin.

Uh oh.


	8. 2019

**2019**

It’s gotten easier. 

There’d been a particular moment when Michael had really wanted to tell everyone properly. Maybe deliver a big announcement, all formal and stilted. Make a big stupid thing of it. They’d been at a convention, wandering the floor with a few of the AH guys on a VIP pre-admission day, all before the actual panel days had begun, and it had taken one gross dude to pick a fight with Fiona before Gavin had lost his _shit_.

(Not to say that Fiona didn’t completely lose her shit as well, because she rightfully _had_ done, and definitely would have singularly won with ease. The team-up between her and Gav had been explosive. It was just that there’d been something dramatically attractive about Gavin yelling things like: _take your head out of your arsehole and LISTEN, you cloth-eared bastard,_ and also: _I’d tell you to get it through your thick skull, but yours seems to have been filled in with CONCRETE_ , before Michael had probably stared at him too adoringly to be closeted about them anymore.)

Gavin had turned to him when Fiona had dusted her hands off. “What a fucking bellend,” he’d said casually, as security had escorted the harasser from the venue.

 _God_. Michael had crept out of his room at one in the morning, then, to dance around telling Gavin what an upstanding citizen he’d been. (And they hadn’t done very much standing about it.)

But yeah. They haven’t made it explicit yet. All in good time. Michael’s been busy shooting again, and it didn’t seem right to let Lindsay know in the middle of filming slow-motion pies smacking into each other’s faces.

It’s not that it’s a secret - it’s more that it’s private. Information to trickle out slowly, drip feed to the company and maybe the public later, who knows. 

“Hey, Lindsay?”

“What?”

“Can you get the hell out of the way?” Gavin demands, steering Bowser’s enormous body around a corner he conceivably shouldn’t be able to pull off.

“Nope,” says Lindsay, “sorry, dude. I’m in it to win it.”

Michael steers Link into mortal peril and narrowly avoids a watery death. “Will a green shell cheer you up, Gav?” he asks, and doesn’t wait for an answer before he throws it anyway.

“No, it won’t-- ah!” Gavin says, _“ah_ , no!”

It devolves into chaos; Matt Bragg makes his presence known, Trevor takes himself from 10th place to 4th with a single star, and several CPUs choose the final lap to inflict their vengeance.

An explosion. Hitting a dropped mushroom. Someone hits Jack and coins shower over the map.

“Red shell! Fuck!” Lindsay squawks, and they’re swiftly dropped to third.

“AHHH, BOO!” bellows a horrified Gavin.

“Yeah, boo?” asks Michael.

He tries not to sound too bored, but honestly? It’s funnier if he is. Everyone else is so worked up about it that when he drifts into first place, it takes everything to stay quiet and smug while the chaos completely erupts around him.

He'd thought it had been obvious, but everyone glosses over it and bitches about who won the tournament instead. (Matt got gold, surprise surprise. Michael scraped a bronze.)

So, like, he might have gotten away with it.

If not for the fact that everyone else had gone to lunch and Gavin was taking his frustration out on Moonball trickshots around the office. Michael comes back to an empty office, save for one man and his destruction addiction, and picks up a literal battleaxe as insurance.

“Okay there, dude?”

“Fine,” says Gavin, as something expensive-sounding rattles over Jeremy’s desk.

Michael approaches him, grinning from ear to ear. “You sure?” he asks, “are you _positive?_ Being a sore loser, there, Gav?”

“I’m not a sore loser,” Gavin says. He seems amused, despite himself. “I think I snagged first place _well_ easily.”

“What are you talking about, man? I came in first.”

“Not the race,” he says.

“Then what?”

Before he can fully comprehend what’s happening, Gavin has drifted into his space, knees knocking against one another, and is putting his beard too close to Michael’s face than a friend’s beard should probably be. 

“Boyfriend department,” he says shortly.

There’s a battleaxe in his hand, still, and a Moonball in Gavin’s pocket. When he kisses him, Michael can feel his smile.

Fuckin’ _stupid_. He loves it.

There’s a stumbling, clattering noise from the doorway.

“Oh my god,” says Matt, as an unimpressed Michael and Gavin turn their heads, and fail to move away from each other. “Oh, _god_ , I’m-- Sorry. Sorry, guys! I’ll just--”

“Naaah, don’t bother,” says Gavin. He squeezes Michael’s wrist quickly, and moves away to check on whatever he’d set up his PC to do over lunch.

“Right,” says Matt.

Michael shares a shrug with him, but he’s fairly sure they’re shrugging off different reactions to what he just walked in on. Matt’s trying to be like, _hey, don’t worry, your unexpected secret is safe with me_ , whereas Michael’s shrug is more of a _welp, who cares anyway?_ kinda deal.

“Matt ball,” says Gavin, who reaches into his pocket and flicks a projectile at the back wall.

“What--?! Ow, _hey!”_

“Gavin, please,” Michael says, just as Matt gets halfway through a _stupid Maro Kart flirting, you guys suck--_ and the office door opens again. Matt freezes up, but he’s already accidentally divulged the secret he’d never actually been told to keep.

“I fuckin’ knew it,” says Geoff flatly. “You two have been dancing round each other for years.”

“Don’t fix what ain’t broke,” Michael shrugs.

“Yeah, dancing _works_ for some people, Geoffrey.”

There’s significantly more people than Michael had been expecting - did everyone come back from lunch at the same time? Geoff, Lindsay, Matt, Jack… What the fuck. His friends-slash-coworkers filter seamlessly into the room and conversation at once:

“Dancing works until it doesn’t, though,” says Lindsay, making some obscene gestures with their hands. “Then you fuck.” 

“No, then you find a _new_ dance. Ours is boyfriend stuff now. You’re filthy,” says Michael, “did you know that?”

Jack says something under his breath that sounds like an amused: _I knew that_.

“I dunno, I think we have overlap in the ‘dance’ and fuck’ venn diagram,” Gavin suggests, and clickety-clacks at his keyboard again. “What do you reckon, Michaelboi?”

“I don’t think fourth place knows anything about _overlap_.”

“Sod off,” Gavin scoffs. And just like that, the cat’s out of the bag, and the day continues as normal. Michael really fucking loves his workplace.


	9. Chapter 9

**2020**

On a non-descript Friday that they celebrate for completely different reasons to everyone else, Michael wakes up in his double bed, and thinks, _wow, this is cosy as fuck. Good job, me_.

Which Gavin quickly ruins.

“Do you have to steal all of the duvet every time?” he complains, tugging the sheets back his way. Ah, that would explain why he’d been so goddamned delightfully cosy! Gavin’s not impressed though. “Give some back, you thieving bastard, it’s cold.”

“It’s _not_ cold,” Michael snorts.

“It’s February!”

“In _Texas_ ,” he points out, and gives back the covers anyway. “Happy Valenversary to you, too, you suckjob. What are we doing tonight?”

“After you get back from your culinary science set, I thought we could go for food,” suggests Gavin. “Fancy food with lots of alcohol, and then maybe a drunken snog on the sofa afterwards?”

“That was barely English.”

“Fine, I’ll shove it up my arse and take Jeremy then,” Gavin sniffs.

It’s too early to laugh himself into a side stitch. “You’d better not shove anything up your ass without _me_ ,” Michael tells him, and rolls over. “I got stuff for that.”

Gavin’s eyes go all twinkly. “Oh, you have?” he asks. “What did you get me?”

“British chocolates. French champagne. Neighbor’s Yard flowers.”

“A misdemeanor!” he says, burying his face into Michael’s shoulder and running a hand up his bicep. “All that effort. You shouldn’t have, Michael.”

It would be nice to have this every morning, Michael thinks - not necessarily the big gestures, but the comfortable back-and-forth, the invisible seams of their lives pressing together without friction. Michael can do one thing, Gavin can do another, and then they could both come back to Michael’s at the end of the day together.

Back to theirs. It could be ‘theirs’.

Michael blinks. “Hey,” he says. “I just had an idea.”

He gets a grunt in return.

“Wanna move in?”

“Yeah, alright,” says Gavin. “I feel like you just want someone to hang about and load the dishwasher for you, though.”

Michael had been holding his breath a little. Any nervousness or doubt that had been in his heart before - well, it’s replaced with domestic outrage pretty goddamn swiftly.

 _“Load the dishwasher?_ Gavin, you’ve never loaded a dishwasher in your _life_ \--”

“That’s false!” Gavin protests. “Are you calling me a grotty skank?!”

“Definitely those exact words,” Michael snickers. “You’re an idiot. Be my maid.”

“Your maid? Your live-in _fecking_ maid?” says Gavin, bracketing Michael’s smug fucking face with his forearms. “Hope you like a well-organized fridge, I’m very particular about the drawers.”

“Yeah, I like it as much as I like a quarterly laundry day,” Michael bites back, “you’d be a terrible maid. I’d rather you just lived here and made a mess for the company of it all.”

“Okay,” Gav says, and kisses him, and kisses him, and they’re both a little late for their respective shifts that day, but it doesn’t matter one tiny bit. Because _Gavin’s moving in with him._

It’s definitely a highlight of the year. It’s not the best part, sure, but alongside him and Lindsay landing a new show, and Gavin cussing out an anti-masker in the grocery store, it definitely ranks in the top ten. He actually considers asking Gavin to marry him during that last one: _your pathetic chin nappy is about as much use as a guff in a colander, leave the poor till boy alone, it’s not his fault he’s seventeen and better than you._ He loves this man. Like, really goddamn adores him.

And it’s plain to see, easy to acknowledge every day. It’s in the way Michael will cool down the car before the drive to work so that Gavin can get in without the seats being sweltering. Or in the electric kettle in the kitchen. The way Gavin organizes the refrigerator every Sunday after they get groceries.

Michael thinks of matching necklaces, pool memories, comfort and conflict. The gentle bump of Gavin’s calves. The scratch of his stubble or beard, whatever’s currently on his face. He recalls moments from Play Pals that randomly made him snort; he remembers the indignant way Gavin screams out for the _REF!!_ when he’s watching soccer games. He’ll cook for Gavin, and Gavin will swear it’s the best bloody thing he’s ever eaten, every time.

Michael’s a pretty good food scientist. He knows what pairs well together, and it’s them. It’s always going to be them.

**Author's Note:**

> Subscribe for updates, come yell at me here [@futureboy-ao3](https://futureboy-ao3.tumblr.com/ask) for normal blogging stuff. Thanks for reading! ♥


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